


Bad Language

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-19
Updated: 2006-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 10:09:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11124984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: It's one of his worst vices.





	Bad Language

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Bad Language

## Bad Language

  
by Voiceless009  


Disclaimer: Well, obviously not mine. Otherwise, I wouldn't need to write fanfiction now, would I?

Author's Notes: Thanks to bipolypesca and Ifreet, my betas. This is dedicated to bpp. In apology.

* * *

You'd think with all the times I'd been smacked in the face -- tough arrests, bar fights, irate old ladies with full handbags -- it'd get easier to handle. Like, um, conditioning. After X amount of swollen noses you're able to let the bastard go with love. _I have nothing but respect for you and your vicious right hook, sir. Nah, that's the Mountie talking._  
  
If I was a better man, maybe I'd be able to detach myself from it. But, you know, I'm not a better man. I'm just a guy with a bad temper and a throbbing frontal lobe. So I twist the kid's arm a little further than necessary. He's not really putting up a fight anymore, but if I just tell myself it's one of those, um, pre-emptive things, then it's gotta be true. I mean, it's only me in here, in my head, and I ain't putting up an argument. I'm in total agreement with myself here.  
  
Fraser'll bitch about it later, I'm sure. Give me a thorough tongue lashing, I bet, and not the fun kind either. But, who cares? That's later. Right now I'm the fucking avenging angel on a really bad day and guess what, kid. Police brutality? I've heard those words so many times now they've lost all meaning.  
  
"Why did you do it, Joey?" Fraser asks, totally cutting across my, "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be--" bit. Now I'd let that slide and keep going but, of course, the kid chooses to answer Fraser, like the guy with the handcuffs and the gun is totally undeserving of his attention.  
  
"I can't-- Oh, man. I didn't mean to... I didn't want to _hurt_ people, you know? But the guys, you gotta be so tough to cut it with them and if I wimped out on this, what was I gonna look like, you know?"  
  
Fraser puts on his vaguely sympathetic face, which isn't really _a_ face so much as _his_ face, because he truly does feel bad for this guy. He's not excusing him, but he's trying to understand. Me, myself, I have a rule. The basic gist is, if you start mugging twelve year old kids and pensioners, you lose your right to a compassionate arrest. So, I slap the cuffs on pretty tight, not enough to hurt, no tighter than is considered humane, but not giving him any slack either. The law may state that he gets tried as a juvenile, but I ain't giving him any breaks.  
  
He punched me and his ring caught my _eye_. He's lucky I don't subscribe to the tooth-for-a-tooth way of thinking. Well, okay, he's lucky Fraser's here to keep me in check. My old partner pretty much gave me free rein with these things, which, come to think of it, might have a lot to do with why I got saddled with this gig in the first place.  
  
"Okay, tough guy, dry your tears and let's get this show on the road." I tug the still whimpering Joey 'I'm A Regular Gangster Until I Actually Get Caught' Jacoby along, Fraser half a step ahead to open the GTO door. Considerate guy. A real gentleman.  
  
I'm ready for the little double back just as I'm pushing the kid's head down. He stiffens up, turns like he's got half a mind to try and run for it a second time, but I just stare him down. _Make my day, punk_. You know?  
  
Kid stares right back; nods his head at me. "You should put some ice on that."  
  
"Cocky fuck." I push him down roughly and slam the door shut, only half-minding not to catch any of his limbs.  
  
When I turn, I got Fraser standing right there, staring at me harder than the kid.  
  
"What?" If I'm short with the guy, it's only 'cause my head hurts and the frown he's sending my way is seriously unnerving.  
  
"Ray, don't you think that was a little inappropriate?"  
  
Oh, god. He's using The Voice. The 'Ray, Please Don't Take Offence To This As I Am Merely Making A Suggestion, This Is In No Way A Telling Off' Voice. It means he's actually quite mad. I made the Mountie mad, and now I gotta pay.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Using a--" he glances at the backseat where Jacoby is studying his knees, probably thinking up ways to explain this to his mom when she comes down to the station. "Using a," Fraser lowers his voice to a whisper, " _curse word_ in front of an impressionable young boy like that. We know for a fact from our talk with her earlier today that his mother makes every effort to ensure he has a clean vocabulary and I very much doubt that she would appreciate--"  
  
"Okay, okay. First of all, Fraser, 'curse word' isn't a curse word and, even if it was, he can't hear you through the window so you really don't need to whisper." I rap my knuckles on the glass, partly to illustrate my point and partly to startle the kid, 'cause I'm petty like that. "Secondly, that 'impressionable young boy' is part of a _gang_ of jerks that get their kicks _attacking_ people and making off with their money, so forgive me for thinking that a little blue language wouldn't be a thing to worry about here."  
  
"Well, Ray, I believe you've just illustrated my point. The one thing we have learned from this experience is that Joey Jacoby is inclined to emulation of authority figures, for example gang members or, I don't know, say, police officers."  
  
"Fraser."  
  
He finally stops and his face is a fraction less tense, now he thinks he's shown me the light or whatever. "Yes, Ray?"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
I don't wait for an answer -- or, at least, I show no signs of it -- but once I'm all the way around to my side of the car, I'm in my seat and have closed the door behind me and Fraser still hasn't said the magic words, "Understood, Ray," I know we're not exactly cool here.  
  


~

Things are winding down back at the station. It's been a pretty productive day, with minimal neck-risking-due-to-Fraser-and-his-goddamn-sense-of-'appropriate'-action, and it's not long before I can walk outta here for the night. Dief's sitting in front of me, eyeing the now stale donut sitting next to a stack of folders and looking pretty determined to guilt me into slipping it to him when Fraser's not looking.

Speaking of Fraser, he's sitting on the other side of my desk, going through the paperwork I just finished writing up and correcting every other word for accuracy or spelling or whatever. So I figure I can relax a little for now.

"Vecchio!"

Where's a big red flashing NO buzzer when you need it?

I flinch, I know I do, even though there's really no reason. I mean, yeah, Welsh sounds pissed off, but he _always_ sounds like that. All you gotta do is go along with it, agree with whatever hundred faults he finds with your work ethic, attitude and personal hygiene, and you'll walk away a free man. A free man with ringing ears and a battered sense of masculinity, but you will be able to walk.

"Lieu?" I stand up and flash him an innocent half-smile, even though I know that shit doesn't work on him.

"Get in here, detective." He disappears from his office doorway and I sigh. Fraser stands, but sits again when, "Just you, detective," follows and gives me one of those sympathetic looks. Welsh has a problem with my last report, I bet. He's gonna tell me, "a diseased chicken could cough up a more comprehensive account." It's the traditional dance of lazy cop and stressed out boss.

A few steps away from my desk and Dewey, the vulture, is in my face just like I knew he would be. One of these days I'm gonna deck this guy, and I'd be surprised if I got less than a medal for it.

"Get outta my face." I grit my teeth. "Just. Don't start on me today."

Dewey shrugs like he don't know what I'm talking about and turns his head to look back at Huey. "Hey, what do you think? Think the Lieutenant's finally gonna do us all a favour and kick him out on his ass? What're the odds on that one at the moment?"

Huey tells him he's not getting involved in this one and goes back to his own paperwork. See now, Jack. That's why you're my favourite duck. Dewey shrugs and smirks at me in that goddamn annoying way. Fuck, this guy gets on my _nerves_. He's the new guy, for god's sake. Newer than me, so how come _I_ have to take his shit? I'd say he's like a kid, but he's not even playing by playground rules. What is it your ma always tells you to do in this situation? Ignore the bully and just walk away. Yeah, right.

"Hey, Dewey?" I make it as far as a step from Welsh's office. "Go fuck yourself."

It's not _poetry_ but, come on, it's been a long day and my head still hurts. Plus I think a bruise has come out so now I get to have my landlady looking at me like I'm some fucked up bar brawler when I go home tonight. I swear. You collapse in a drunken heap and spend the night snoozing outside her door just _once_ and the old bat'll never let you forget it. I was in a bad way. Stella-related, as always. You'd think someone could cut the ex-husband some slack.

That's when I make a mistake. I shouldn't look back at Fraser. I know this. I know this in my bones, in my heart, in my soul, and yet...

Yep. There he is. Looking straight back at me. Wow. That is one re-- um, re-- whatsit, reproachful look (that's a Fraser-word). Aw, hell. You can't stare down the Mountie. I should know better than to try. Even though it goes against everything I believe in, I know what I'm gonna do even before I really think about it. Thing is, I think any guy would do just about anything to wipe that look off Fraser's face. He's like a puppy, your mother, and that one really nice teacher you had that you never wanted to make disappointed in you all rolled into one. So...I do it.

"Sorry, Dewey." I mumble my apology at the guy -- who was grinning up until this point but is now looking a little freaked out which, I gotta admit, makes me feel better -- and glance back at Fraser to make sure he caught that.

Then I head in to face Welsh's most probably overly dramatic wrath, leaving a mollified Mountie behind me (another Fraser-word), along with Dewey, who's looking around for the hidden cameras.

**********

I'll admit to feeling more than a little relief when Ray invited me back to his apartment to watch the hockey game. I'm afraid that today wasn't one of our better days, which is why I'm sitting on his sofa at this moment, breathing in quiet, measured breaths -- because he has been known to complain that I am too loud even when I'm being quiet -- and generally trying to be unoffending and pleasant company. If there is any fence mending to be done, it is clear that I must swallow the remnants of my annoyance and...let the mending commence.

This is a rather recent development, spending evenings after work at Ray's apartment. Not that we didn't spend time together before, eating at restaurants or taking in the occasional movie. In fact, I would go as far as to say that both Ray and I had a social life that consisted almost exclusively of each other. This hasn't changed, excluding the fact that now we hardly even share one another with the public.

Ray is bent over, searching his refrigerator. His head is stuck in so deep that his shoulders are up against the frame, and I quell the urge to ask if he needs me to pry him out. After some time, he grunts in annoyance (oh, how well I know that noise) and pulls out, slamming the door with ferocity. There is a loud jangling and Ray grimaces, but we both pretend not to realise that the solitary milk bottle in the plastic door pocket must've toppled over.

"So, I have no food." He announces and I nod to show him that I am untroubled by this.

"I'm not hungry, Ray." I arrange my face into a smile but when I receive nothing but a hard-edged stare in return, I continue, hoping to hit upon whatever magic words are best to placate him in this instance. "Of course, if you want to eat, I wouldn't be averse to a pizza." Hm... "My treat."

"Aren't you sick of pizza?"

Well, I suppose we have become a little set in our ways of late. I must admit, the diet of pizza and burgers and Chinese food or sometimes Indian, if that happens to be the first menu we come across in our searches of the piles (" _Organised_ piles, Fraser", Ray insists) scattered across his apartment, has become a little tiresome. What's more is that Ray is -- contrary to _his_ belief -- not a very subtle man, and if he wants to believe that he has been slipping Diefenbaker a share of the food without my noticing, that's fine, but that wolf has started on a slippery slope of indulgence and gluttony and now is the time to put my foot down.

"Perhaps." I say.

"I don't even have any beer." Ray says mournfully, brushing a hand over his face in a long, drawn out swipe.

"I don't dri--"

"No, but I do. I do, Fraser. And I don't have any." Ray leans back against the refrigerator and the back of his head makes a rather worrying _clunk_ when he brings it back against the door. "It's a sad day, Fraser, when a guy gets so behind on his groceries he forgets to buy the beer."

"The game is starting." I beckon him over, hoping to distract him from this latest tragedy in the life of Stanley Ray Kowalski.

He sighs and draws himself upright, a look of determination on his face. I know he believes it somehow... _wrong_ to enjoy a hockey game without at least holding some kind of alcoholic beverage in his hand, but it seems he is willing to try.

"Perhaps, to negate the absence of alcohol, we could make a wager on the outcome, Ray. Not with money, of course. That would be entirely inappropriate. However, I am more than willing to bet you, say, a hundred of air on a victory for the Leafs."

"Leafs suck, Fra-mother _fucker_!" Ray is moving forward, then all of a sudden is clutching at his thigh with one hand and bringing the other down on the kitchen bench as if admonishing it with excessive force. "Oh, _shit_ , that-- that fucking counter! You'd think by now I'd-- holy fucking bastard of-- god _damn_."

I gather from his disjointed ranting that he harms himself with this counter on a fairly regular basis.

I also cannot hold back the scolding, " _Ray_ ," that leaps from my seditious mouth, mostly out of pure habit than any kind of personal umbrage. Instantly, I regret it. Ray jerks straight like an electric current has passed through him, his war injury forgotten for the moment.

"Oh, no, Fraser. Uh-uh." Within an instant, he is upon me, towering and menacing with his arms crossed over his chest. "This shit won't wash in _my_ home. You can bitch at me about that kid, or about-- about _Dewey_ , for whatever insane reason--"

He is angry, enraged enough to coax that vein in his forehead into prominence, so I refrain from informing him that I hadn't said a word to him on his treatment of Detective Dewey although, if I had, it would've been perfectly reasonable, as he had been acting in a manner entirely unsuitable for the workplace. Not that I don't have my concerns for Detective Dewey's hostile attitude, but Ray is better than that.

"--but don't sit here in _my_ apartment and tell me to watch my goddamn language. I can do what I fucking well like here, Fraser, and if you have a problem, you should just leave."

Almost on autopilot I get to my feet, as if my body is wired to mechanically obey any command issued, regardless of whether or not it came from a conscious part of _myself_. At this realisation, I halt and find myself standing barely a few inches from Ray, who is by no account a large man but at this very moment seems to be puffing himself up, as cats tend to do. I'm afraid I've reached an impasse.

Ray feels I have pushed too far and has suggested that I leave. Now, does he in actuality _want_ me to leave, or will my departure only exacerbate the matter?

If there is one, single unchanging fact that I have learnt about our new Raymond Vecchio, it is that little can ever be achieved with him through guesswork. He isn't altogether very lenient, and hasn't shown much patience for incorrect deductions.

I open my mouth with the intention of lessening the bother but never quite get the question past my lips, what with the sudden attachment of Ray's mouth to my own. He is rough and angry; the tension that was visible in his body language is palpable in his kiss. I stand there; I do not respond, but I accept all the frustration being poured into me. Ray's own little parody of buddy breathing.

Although I am unable to reciprocate -- not only due to moral sensibilities, but some...psychosomatic incapability -- I do place my hands on his shoulders, letting him know that he may push this anger into me; I accept it. My mouth remains slanted and pliant, and I wait for Ray to finish and step away.

However, Ray shows no signs of stopping. His kisses do grow less deep, less punishing, but no gentler for that. His tongue retreats and the kisses turn into little pseudo-nips. Then real ones. He bites down on my lower lip, coaxing blood to the surface but not quite breaking the skin, and then soothes it with a slow swipe of his tongue. By the time he has repeated the process on my top lip I'm afraid I can no longer claim passivity in this activity.

An unaffected man would not encompass the back of Ray's neck with his hands, wouldn't let his fingers brush through the short hair at the back of his head, wouldn't be the one to press his lower body against Ray's. Ray, who _mmfs_ in my mouth and whose hands plant themselves on my buttocks, squeeze me through my clothes, urge me closer and then encourage me to rub myself against him.

"Oh."

Ray's mouth releases mine, or perhaps I pull away, and we are left looking at each other with no convenient distraction to-- _oh_ , but there _is_ , because I haven't ceased the slow drag of my erection against his, which is more obvious in his jeans than my uniform, and he certainly hasn't stopped encouraging me. In fact, for every thrust I provide, I receive a long squeeze to either or both of my cheeks.

I can't help myself. His expression is so confident, so heated, and not entirely free from residual anger. I can't stand it. So, I turn my head, place my face in the crook of his neck, latch my teeth onto warm skin and run my tongue along the same patch.

"Fraser!" Surprise, the good kind, in his voice, and suddenly I am pushing against his groin unaided and his hands are fumbling to get to my covered flesh. I open my mouth to inform him that this uniform is not designed for convenience and perhaps if he allowed me to-- but, _oh, Lord_. He's found his way in already and when his hand wraps itself around me I can't stifle completely the embarrassing...noise that escapes my throat.

He chuckles huskily and his hand, _oh_ , his hand tightens and develops a rhythm and must he sound so awfully pleased with himself? In retaliation, I bite down perhaps a little harder than I really should, but somehow I have a feeling that guilt will not be coming to me in this instance.

"Fuck, Fraser." Ray shudders against me but his hips jerk forward, pressing his hand harder against my erection whilst he moans with pleasure, which leads me to wonder exactly what part of that was supposed to be revenge. "Yeah. Fuck, yeah."

"Ray." The admonishment falls from my lips so fast that I first register it when Ray halts the proceedings and leans back to look at me.

"Did you just _scold_ me, Fraser?"

I don't know what to say. I fear that any attempt to explain would immediately turn into a demand for his hand to resume its previous movement.

"Did you just take time out from us having sex to tell me off for swearing?"

I'm sorely tempted to inform Ray that I was not the one to take time out from anything -- it was he who stalled things. However, I resist. Instead I push my lips back against his and wait for him to open them with his tongue once again. Within moments we are back in the swing of things, as Ray would say. He explores me with intensified passion and I find the courage to send my fingers questing down over his chest, brushing over his nipples only sporadically, as he makes such lovely little sounds when I surprise him like that.

When I find myself reclining on the sofa once again, with Ray kneeling before me, roughly tugging down my trousers, his words finally assemble themselves into a complete sentence in my mind. We are having sex, here. Or, we are about to have sex. We are on the edge of sex, on the threshold of sex. I am a few moments away from having sex with Ray Ve-- with Ray _Kowalski_ , and I'm not entirely sure how I got here.

Of course, when Ray has his lips wrapped around my penis I'm not about to bring the matter up with him.

Apparently, this is going to be an embarrassing night for me, as another odd and ridiculously loud moan forces itself out of my mouth and I cannot help but push up into that amazing sensation. Then Ray stops to glare up at me as if to let me know that his mouth is not, in fact, a sex toy and I do actually have to maintain a modicum of self-control. I must appear to him at least adequately contrite as he swallows around me and _sucks_ before continuing the up and down motion that is slowly -- or perhaps not so slowly -- building something... _great_ inside of me.

I throw my head back over the top of the cushions, but once my eyes are open I find myself distracted by the ceiling. I wonder if it is the dim lighting in this apartment or if it really is that dirty. I consider how much time Ray must spend looking at this ceiling and speculate on if it fills him with any bitterness that, when he was living with his wife Stella, he had a much nicer ceiling to look at. I toy with the idea of offering to help clean and repaint it one weekend.

Then those lovely sensations stop and I look down to find Ray kneeling back on his haunches and glowering quite effectively. "Fraser, I'm giving you a blowjob here. The least you could do is pay attention."

In apology (and impatience), I take Ray by the back of the neck and urge him up onto his couch with me. It is then that I notice he has one hand down his own pants, the head of his cock-- no, cock is a Ray-word -- poking through the open zipper. I pop the button he never quite managed to get undone and go to wrap my own palm around him. However, I am denied this and instead Ray pushes tight against me, grabs hold of both of us in one hand and begins to stroke.

I heave forward to bring my mouth once more to his, an attempt to stifle whatever ridiculous sound wants to embarrass me next. Ray kisses me once, a shallow one, but then moves on, rubbing his lips and tongue over my cheek, my chin, my ear. By the time he has attached his teeth to my neck, just beneath my jaw, he is panting harshly and pushing up into his own hand in a way that creates the most delicious friction for the both of us.

As I never got around to removing an item of clothing at the beginning of the evening, I am paying the price now. The serge jacket is not the most forgiving of clothes and I can feel a sweat patch growing at the small of my back. The coolness is welcome against my inflamed skin. There isn't a part of me strong enough to request that Ray stop while I remove anything, so I resign myself to the fact that I will simply have to endure.

"Oh, holy hell, Fraser." Ray's breath sweeps under my chin, makes my skin prickle. "Sweet fucking Jesus, this is so-- you're such a..." Words give way for broken moans and panting, and I am no more coherent so I merely groan to make my opinion known.

Ray pauses for a fraction of a second but I feel it. "You like it, don't you?" His voice vibrates against my skin, where his mouth is pressed so tightly against my throat and I can do nothing more than shiver and pray he speaks again. "You like dirty talk, Fraser? I can do that. I am _so_ down with that."

"Keep-- keep _talking_ , Ray," I manage, now thrusting into his hand as if there was no time left in the world. I need more; I need it now.

"Oh, yeah." His mouth moves to my ear, he speaks directly into it. "Fuck _yeah_ , Ben. Can I call you Ben?"

" _Yes_ ," I whine, grabbing his shoulders and clasping with each thrust upwards we share.

"Ben, you're so fucking hot. You know that? The things I could do to you. The fucking things I want to do to your cock." My ear is burning. All of me is burning. I am alight and alive and I'm-- I'm coming, convulsing and moaning, trying to muffle myself in his shoulder.

Still Ray does not let go of my softening penis. He rubs against it, using me for himself now, which I suppose is only fair as I have been alarmingly lazy in the events here tonight. His free hand wanders down to cup his scrotum, squeeze and massage until he is crying out softly with each swift, hard pull on his erection. The rasp of his skin on my own over-sensitised flesh is sweet and severe. Intense.

"Fuck. Fraser. _Ben_. Gonna come."

The furious, wet slap of his palm on our skin, lubricated generously by my semen and his own pre-ejaculate juices, is obscene and fantastic and when Ray finally shudders and stills, I almost keen for that breathtaking feeling which is lost to me now that his hand has released me from its grip.

Ray slumps down on me and we both pant against each other, neither of us moving, both reluctant to jog Ray's mouth from where it rests over my ear. I catch a glimpse of white fur out of the corner of my eye and find myself growing even redder with the knowledge that Diefenbaker was witness to the whole thing. Fortunately, he seems to be asleep beside the sofa. Asleep or pretending. I cannot bring myself to care too much. I am humming with energy. I can feel my pulse in every forgotten corner of my body and it is a long, long time before I am able to speak.

Even then, the only words I can muster are no more eloquent than, "Oh-- oh-- oh, _God_ , Ray."

"Blasphemy, Fraser," Ray huffs out, sounding inordinately pleased. "That's a start."

\--End--

  
 

* * *

End Bad Language by Voiceless009 

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